An Autumn Treasure-Trove

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'Tis the time of the year's sundown, and flame
  Hangs on the maple bough;
  And June is the faded flower of a name;
  The thin hedge hides not a singer now.
  Yet rich am I; for my treasures be
  The gold afloat in my willow-tree.

  Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew,
  Girded with blue and pearl,
  Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too;
  As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl,
  She sings while her soul brooding tearfully
  Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree.

  All day pure white and saffron at eve,
  Clouds awaiting the sun
  Turn them at length to ghosts that leave
  When the moon's white path is slowly run
  Till the morning comes, and with joy for me
  O'er my gold agleam in the willow-tree.

  The lilacs that blew on the breast of May
  Are an old and lost delight;
  And the rose lies ruined in his careless way
  As the wind turns the poplars underwhite,
  Yet richer am I for the autumn; see
  All my misty gold in the willow-tree.

© Eugene Field